Dear Gary Barlow...

Dear Gary Barlow

I have loved you since I was 14. I loved you before you turned into the handsome, housewives favourite, and the man of the moment, loved by the Queen, that you are today. I loved you when you were a little bit tubby, had bad hair and couldn't dance. I have still got your doll. And you once threw me a water bottle in a concert at the NEC which I treasured for years and years. I think you did it as you loved me, with my bad skin, sun in hair and boots with wood in the bottom.

But Gary. I am sad to tell you this. We are breaking up. I have seen you on EVERY tour that you have ever done. Every single one. From the teeny tiny Wolverhampton Civic Hall, to the bloody nightmare to get home from epic Aston Villa Football Ground tour you did with Robbie a few years ago. I have been there. Cheering you on. Pretending to be Lulu in Relight my Fire and doing the full dance routine to Could it be Magic. Gary? You have proper pissed me off.

Tickets are going on sale for a new tour this week. Huzzah I thought! And then when I looked at the prices. I. Couldn't. Get. My. Hat. On. I think you are Take That-ing the piss (see what I did there? I know you have always loved me for my sense of humour). £62 for the cheap seats and £95 for the good ones? £95 FOR THE GOOD SEATS? WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU PLAYING AT? Does that near £100 include a special song from you in my honour, a bunch of roses and tea at Nandos after? No? Then what does it pay for?

We could have been so happy Gary

I am sad to say I think Gary Barlow OBE, you are preying on the fact that women of a certain age (cough mid 30s to mid 40s cough) like relieving their youth. That somewhere deep inside of us we wish we were 15 again. And we long to be in a time where life was simple, and we were in love with a poster of a young Mark Owen in a Johnsons Baddy Powder top with a dolphin tattoo. A man that couldn't hurt us. A man that looked good even when he was sadly singing about discovering that he had an illegitimate child with a former girlfriend. In coldest Russia.

Over the years I reckon I have spent thousands on you G. Buying singles in different formats. Making scrap books of your face from magazines. Train tickets to sit outside your house. Some say this is stalking and I say. Yes with hindsight this is stalking but I digress. I have spent more than enough money on you and I can't do it anymore. I just can't. I know your concert will be amazing and inspiration will have come from the Cirque de Soleil. But you know what? I hate the Cirque de ruddy Soleil. 

Let's be honest. You are now a three piece band. Not even five piece any more. And all I want to see you do is sing all your hits. And I want to sit politely through any new tracks. Or go and buy an overpriced t shirt then (another £30 gone down the drain). I have no doubt that many, many women up and down the country will splash out on this tour. And will have the night of their lives. But Gary? I can't do it. I can't afford it. It's not that I don't love you. It's that maybe I think you're taking advantage of me. Alas and not in the way I wish you were.

So. It's over. I will think fondly of the days I spent dreaming of our wedding and the hours I lost trying to get through to Going Live to ask you what your favourite colour is. 

Let's be friends eh? We can be civil about it. If it makes you feel better. The £95 will go towards my kids Christmas presents. 

Em x
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